


Sharpness of Mind

by satterthwaite



Category: The Hour
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Language, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Spanish Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satterthwaite/pseuds/satterthwaite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sharpness of mind doesn't go hand-in-hand with dehydration, nausea and waves of self-loathing." Randall knows what he is talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpness of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> As I was rewatching "The Hour", I caught this Randall's quote and immediately pictured him being saved by Lix on a very hungover morning.

Brunete is harsh, it's the taste of blood that lingers in your mouth and a stinging pain in the mind. Lix can see the clouds in his eyes. 

"Are you sure you want to come ?" she asks as she packs her bag, camera and films. 

Randall hisses through his teeth, she doesn't quite catch what he says, she closes her eyes. She knows what he is up to during his nights, finding companions more faithful than her and with names that sounds like bad poetry. 

"Fine" she whispers. Lix is not his mother, she can't tell him what to do, and he never listens. 

The fightings never quite stop in this town, the screams never fade away. Misery is always there to be captured by Lix's camera, to be described with Randall's words. They wake up everyday with knots in their stomach. 

They never leave alone - journalists try and stick together, screw the best shot when the only concern is to make it out alive while doing one's job. They greet them, it's no secret anymore that the two of them share more than a professional relationship. They can notice the greenishness floating on Randall's face, but Lix does as if she saw nothing herself. 

They speak about where to go, where the fightings are the thickest, where the casualties are the most important. Lix side-eyes Randall, he seems away. She trusts him, even if she knows she shouldn't. 

The building around them are in ruins, they have to split in smaller groups in order to go on without making too big a target for the Fascists. She stays with him, and another journalist, a French man whose name she has already forgotten. The milicia is not far away - they can hear the gunshots in the distance. There is a painful frown on Randall's brow.

They have to be careful now, nearing the soldiers, the fighters. There's a little boy who comes running towards them, Lix catches him on her film, quick and efficient. Newspaper readers love those kind of pictures of a world they'll probably never know. 

The soldiers invade the street, Lix goes for the nearest building, the French next to her. When she turns around, Randall is still standing in the middle of the road, a lost puppy as men come forward and they all carry weapons. She cries for him to come, he seems sick and dizzy. 

"Qu'est-ce qu'il fait ?!" the French shouts. "I'll go." Lix replies quickly, leaping to get him. A hand closes around her wrist. Some warning is whispered, but she turns around and punches the man in the face. Let me go.

She runs face down, bullets flying, whistling, too close to her skin. Men shout around her - a moving target is harder to get, this is the only thought she can process without wanting to cry. Adrenalin rushes in her vein, up to her brain. She catches his arm and heads for what looks like a ruined bakery at the other end of the street. His arm feels heavy and flaccid in her hand, she carries on. It's not until they're both lying in dust and rubble that she feels the blinding pain in her upper arm, feels the hot stream down her limb.

\--

They're back in their flat, he is sobbing in the bedroom as Barnaby helps Lix bandaging her arm. Hopefully the bullet didn't get stuck, no need for a doctor here. It'll take some time to heal, but it will get better. She can still hold a camera - that's all that matters.

She is leaning against the doorframe, looking at him. Then she slaps him.  

"What the fuck were you thinking, you fucking bastard ?" she yells as she can already feel the tears coming up to her eyes. "Next time, do me a favour and stop thinking you can bloody do anything and there will be no consequences ! Who do you think you are, Randall Brown ? Because I will tell you - you are a fucking alcoholic !"

It's not the first time he's been told, she is sure - but it's the first time she utters those words to him. The first time she opens her eyes. She has drunk with him, spent sleepless nights in bed with tequila and his warm body next to her - but she can't deceive herself anymore. He is being eaten from the inside, a war he is fighting and losing. The war he cannot report, even to himself. She'll have to pick up the pieces, she'll have to do that for him. 

She wraps one arm around him, buries his face in her neck as she soothes his tears away. Hers start running down her cheek. "I thought I was about to lose you" she breathes against his head. "Please, don't do that to me again. Don't leave me." 

 


End file.
